Another Study of Woman | Page 4

of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, two or
three women, among them Madame d'Espard and Mademoiselle des
Touches, have not chosen to give up the share of influence they
exercised in Paris, and have not closed their houses.
The salon of Mademoiselle des Touches is noted in Paris as being the
last refuge where the old French wit has found a home, with its
reserved depths, its myriad subtle byways, and its exquisite politeness.
You will there still find grace of manner notwithstanding the
conventionalities of courtesy, perfect freedom of talk notwithstanding
the reserve which is natural to persons of breeding, and, above all, a
liberal flow of ideas. No one there thinks of keeping his thought for a
play; and no one regards a story as material for a book. In short, the
hideous skeleton of literature at bay never stalks there, on the prowl for
a clever sally or an interesting subject.
The memory of one of these evenings especially dwells with me, less

by reason of a confidence in which the illustrious de Marsay opened up
one of the deepest recesses of woman's heart, than on account of the
reflections to which his narrative gave rise, as to the changes that have
taken place in the French woman since the fateful revolution of July.
On that evening chance had brought together several persons, whose
indisputable merits have won them European reputations. This is not a
piece of flattery addressed to France, for there were a good many
foreigners present. And, indeed, the men who most shone were not the
most famous. Ingenious repartee, acute remarks, admirable banter,
pictures sketched with brilliant precision, all sparkled and flowed
without elaboration, were poured out without disdain, but without
effort, and were exquisitely expressed and delicately appreciated. The
men of the world especially were conspicuous for their really artistic
grace and spirit.
Elsewhere in Europe you will find elegant manners, cordiality, genial
fellowship, and knowledge; but only in Paris, in this drawing-room,
and those to which I have alluded, does the particular wit abound which
gives an agreeable and changeful unity to all these social qualities, an
indescribable river-like flow which makes this profusion of ideas, of
definitions, of anecdotes, of historical incidents, meander with ease.
Paris, the capital of taste, alone possesses the science which makes
conversation a tourney in which each type of wit is condensed into a
shaft, each speaker utters his phrase and casts his experience in a word,
in which every one finds amusement, relaxation, and exercise. Here,
then, alone, will you exchange ideas; here you need not, like the
dolphin in the fable, carry a monkey on your shoulders; here you will
be understood, and will not risk staking your gold pieces against base
metal.
Here, again, secrets neatly betrayed, and talk, light or deep, play and
eddy, changing their aspect and hue at every phrase. Eager criticism
and crisp anecdotes lead on from one to the next. All eyes are listening,
a gesture asks a question, and an expressive look gives the answer. In
short, and in a word, everything is wit and mind.
The phenomenon of speech, which, when duly studied and well
handled, is the power of the actor and the story-teller, had never so
completely bewitched me. Nor was I alone under the influence of its
spell; we all spent a delightful evening. The conversation had drifted

into anecdote, and brought out in its rushing course some curious
confessions, several portraits, and a thousand follies, which make this
enchanting improvisation impossible to record; still, by setting these
things down in all their natural freshness and abruptness, their elusive
divarications, you may perhaps feel the charm of a real French evening,
taken at the moment when the most engaging familiarity makes each
one forget his own interests, his personal conceit, or, if you like, his
pretensions.
At about two in the morning, as supper ended, no one was left sitting
round the table but intimate friends, proved by intercourse of fifteen
years, and some persons of great taste and good breeding, who knew
the world. By tacit agreement, perfectly carried out, at supper every one
renounced his pretensions to importance. Perfect equality set the tone.
But indeed there was no one present who was not very proud of being
himself.
Mademoiselle des Touches always insists on her guests remaining at
table till they leave, having frequently remarked the change which a
move produces in the spirit of a party. Between the dining-room and
the drawing-room the charm is destroyed. According to Sterne, the
ideas of an author after shaving are different from those he had before.
If Sterne is right, may it not be boldly asserted that the frame of mind
of a party at table is not the same as that of the same persons